"Oh" comes to mind. I am slow
to lift, wait like a limb, a ledge.
The birds save each sound
for morning, a shadow of wings
wakes a cloud of bees. My body,
sketch-like, pitched slowly forward.
If I drop my hands from my eyes,
an open dark; a room
of rival light that scatters
to understand. To stay, a game
of what calls me, descends, or,
the way we sometimes hover.